Married With Malice: An Arranged Marriage Romance

What a mistake.

I chose to snuggle up with the holiday romcom because I love this author and the cover is full of pastel cuteness and I thought maybe all the frothy seasonal goodness would infect me with the Christmas spirit.

However, I’m not infected, not even slightly.

This isn’t the book’s fault. If I were in a different mood I’d be devouring the snappy banter, grinning over the eccentric side characters and wishing that I too resided in a small, geographically imprecise town famous for its annual gingerbread house competition.

Instead, I keep skimming the wholesome paragraphs of seasonal cheer as my mind wanders down dark, twisted lanes full of menacing growls and gnarled branches.

I have a real attitude about failing to finish a book and I’m not giving up on this one. I’ll just save it for another night. There’s time for the holiday spirit to show up. The first of December is still two days away.

After plugging my Kindle back into its charger, I flop back onto my pillow and stare at the ceiling. There’s no mystery about the reason why I’m unable to appreciate a quirky happily ever after right now. Despite being a newlywed, I’m miles away from one of those myself.

Turning on my side, I face Luca’s empty side of the bed. My hand moves over the surface of the fluffy down comforter and lands on his pillow. The fabric feels cool against my palm and impulsively I shift my body closer to that side of the bed. His pillow is no different than mine, yet laying my cheek on it stirs an entirely different reaction.

The cedarwood-tinted scent of his shower gel is instantly recognizable to me now. A tug of warm arousal begins low in my belly and quickly uncoils.

Two nights ago I awoke in the darkness with my heart pounding and a delicious ache between my thighs. The outlines of an erotic dream were already fading and I was stuck in a valley between sleep and full consciousness with a desperate need to find relief.

Luca’s sleeping body was stretched out beside me. He wasn’t there when I fell asleep but this isn’t surprising. Lately whenever he’s home, which is rare, he’s preoccupied. Quiet. Sometimes I catch him looking at me as if he’s wondering what I’m doing in his house. Maybe he figured out that I overheard his ‘take one for the team’ comment and expects retaliation.

Dealing with this new brooding silence of his isn’t the best feeling. Luca’s typical mocking humor, though infuriating at times, is much more familiar.

Knowing I’d never be able to get back to sleep without finishing what was started in the dream, I rolled to my belly. This felt good, giving friction to the throbbing, tender nerves by driving my hips into the mattress. The low moan in my throat was stifled by the pillow. My hand snuck into my panties, my fingers searching for the sweet spot that would help end this fever.

I had no idea Luca was awake until I felt the draft from the covers getting thrown aside. His rough hands tugged my panties down. I was just as eager to get rid of them. His shorts were quickly discarded before he shoved my legs apart and knelt behind me.

The hard length of his cock flexed on the back of my thigh. His fingers slipped under my belly and probed between my legs, knowing exactly how to get me closer to the edge. In no time I was whimpering and clenching as his newly soaked fingers slid in and out with skillful ease.

When he removed them, I complained, gasping out, “PLEASE!”

Luca didn’t let me suffer. He grabbed my hips and promptly drove his cock deep.

In that dark, unknown hour, we used each other hard and fast without speaking. When I came, I gripped the sheets in my fists and bit the pillow as my muscles quaked and the waves overwhelmed me. I was sliding down the other side of that powerful high when Luca’s prolonged groan warned of his eruption.

We were both sweating and shaky when he rolled away and reclaimed his side of the bed. Content and dreamy, I drifted back to sleep with the warmth of his release still wet on my thighs.

When I opened my eyes again, the grey light of morning was filtering through the shutters and Luca’s side of the bed was empty, leaving me to wonder if our frantic coupling in the middle of the night had really happened. I haven’t seen him since then.

That’s the way it is with these men. Growing up, there were countless times when my father didn’t come home for days on end. If any questions are asked, they won’t be answered.

While I’m fretting on my husband’s pillow, the rumble of the garage door startles me and I jerk upright. It’s half past midnight. Luca will assume I’m asleep.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I hold my breath and listen. The sound of the door to the garage opening and closing is faint but distinctive, like he’s trying to enter quietly. Seconds pass but there are no footsteps on the stairs. I hear cabinets swinging open and shut, the rustle of items being moved around as if he’s searching for something. An object clatters loudly into the sink and Luca spits out a string of angry curses.

With a sigh, I shove my feet into a pair of slippers and grab a robe as a shield against the chilly house. I never turn on the heat if I can help it, always hating the stuffy, stale smell that infiltrates the rooms.

The stairwell is dim and I shiver with inexplicable dread as I tie the belt of my robe and think of gothic tales, of naïve heroines who hear a noise in the night and glide down the stairs of the castle to a scene of horror. All I’m missing is a candlestick.

But I’m sure no horror awaits. Only the man I’m married to.

Luca is in the kitchen, standing in front of the sink and squirting bottled water on a wad of paper towels, which he presses to a bleeding cut above his right eyebrow. He’s disheveled and unshaven, which is unusual in itself since Luca always looks well-groomed and ready to host a stockbroker convention. His white shirt is splattered with bloodstains and I know the blood can’t all be his. An angry bruise colors his left cheekbone and his knuckles are split. The state of him is so shocking that I can’t even gasp.

He leans against the sink and stares at the empty kitchen counter. I’m not sure how long it would have taken him to notice my presence without me softly saying, “Luca.”

With a visible flinch, his green eyes snap to me and it’s as if they belong to another man, one I’ve never met. One I’m afraid to meet tonight.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says in a dull voice and removes the wad of paper towels from his head. He frowns at the sight of blood on them.

I’m a daughter of the mafia. My life has been filled with men who do terrible things. I understand that I’m in a room with one of them right now.

And yet it’s because I’m a mafia daughter that the logical portion of my brain is able to take control. Wherever Luca has been and whatever he has done, he is my husband and for that alone he gets my loyalty.

“Go upstairs,” I say. “Get right in the shower and I’ll deal with your clothes.”

He’s traumatized enough to cooperate and trudge up the stairs. The bloody paper towels are left on the counter. I’ll deal with them too. He passes me with a haunted, unseeing glance that strikes twin bolts of fear and rage through my heart.

Oh Luca, what have they done to you?

While growing up, there were many reasons for me to dislike Luca Connelly. From his insufferable pranks to his fondness for verbally provoking me every chance he got, my list of grievances was long.

But what I’ve never seen from him is cruel violence.

He’s not cut from the same cloth as the killers who surround us.

They’ve molded him into one anyway.

Tonight I hate them all for that. His uncle. My father. The capos and the underbosses, all the way down the ladder to the soldiers. The whole fucking hierarchy.

They should burn in hell for putting that bleak look in his eyes.

Luca strips off his bloody clothes and drops them on the bathroom floor as he steps into the shower. An odd sense of déjà vu washes over me as I pick up the pile.

The last time I scooped his clothes up off the floor, I threw them into a fire. Funny how history repeats in a roundabout way.

The new backyard landscaping features a lap pool and a large entertainment patio with both an outdoor kitchen and a mammoth stone fireplace. Powered by gas at the flick of a switch, the fireplace roars to life with dancing flames.

I suppose the temperature is near freezing and I’m wearing a thin robe but I’m too wired with adrenaline to feel anything as I toss Luca’s clothes into the fire. They burn quickly. When every item is reduced to ash, I switch the fireplace off and the flames disappear.

Upstairs, Luca is finished with his shower. He sits on the edge of the bed wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers. The cut on his face is bleeding again. His ravaged knuckles look painful. On the right side of his ribcage there’s some discoloration, evidence that he absorbed a powerful blow.

His head was bowed but now he looks up. He hasn’t had a haircut since our wedding and loose pieces of damp black hair fall over his forehead.

“Stay there,” I tell him. “You need those cuts cleaned off.”

I can feel his eyes on me as I wash my hands thoroughly and rummage through the bathroom cabinets for the first aid kit. He hasn’t moved an inch when I return.

His knuckles are raw and will likely hurt for days but the cuts are more like shallow scrapes. I cover them with antibacterial ointment and move on to the gash on his face. Luca submits to my amateur doctoring without complaint.

An intense tenderness tightens my chest as I tend to his injuries. The closest comparison is the way I feel when Sabrina or Daisy is sick or hurting. Yet even that is not quite the same.

The bleeding has slowed. It doesn’t look like he’ll need stitches. After cleaning the small tear in his skin with an alcohol-soaked wipe, I dab on some antibiotic ointment and reach for a bandage.

“Do you like this nightgown, Anni?” he asks as I peel the paper tabs off the bandage adhesive.

It’s the first time he’s spoken since he left the kitchen. It’s also a strange question to ask. I don’t get the impression that he’s high. There’s also no evidence of a concussion.

Carefully, I press the bandage to the cut over his brow. “Why do you want to know?”

He unties the loose knot holding my robe together. Underneath, I’m wearing a red satin nightshirt with white buttons running down the front. It reaches mid-thigh and it’s not outrageously sexy but it’s not frumpy either.

Luca’s hands surround my waist. He slides his palms down my hips and pushes his hands beneath my nightshirt. In an instant, my nipples tingle and harden against the smooth fabric.

His breathing accelerates as his hands explore. “Because if you tell me you like it then I might not tear it to fucking shreds.”

Rolling the robe from my shoulders, I let it drop down to the floor. “No, I don’t like this nightgown. I hate it. I’ve always hated it.”

That’s not remotely true. This is my most comfortable sleepwear but fuck it. I want him. I don’t care what he’s done tonight or how messed up our relationship is. He’s the only man on earth with the power to make my body feel as if it can fly and ignite all at once.

If this is what he needs right now, he can have it. It’s what I need too.

Luca shoves his knee between my legs and pulls me down until I’m straddling his muscular thigh. The desolation is gone from his eyes, replaced with a glimmer of hot mischief.

“I thought you’d say that,” he whispers and moves my hips back and forth until I’m grinding on his thigh.

A low moan leaves my lips. My head tilts back and I brace my hands on his broad shoulders.

With one quick tear from his hands, my nightshirt is split all the way open. His mouth fastens to my right breast and sucks hard. His fingers press into the back of my neck to keep me in place while his thumb trails the column of my throat.

A born athlete, Luca is extremely strong. The week we moved in here, I spied on him in the home gym. I know he could crush me with one hand if he wanted to. The thought would never cross his mind. In that way, I trust him completely.

I’m shameless in the way I ride his thigh, desperate to get off any way I can. My torn nightshirt is discarded in a quest to feel more of his skin. He sucks at my other breast, his teeth grazing the nipple, before his mouth moves up to my neck. It stings when he nips at the skin, sucking it between his teeth. I know he’s intentionally leaving a mark, plain for all to see.

Good. I’m glad to be known as his.

His hands reach for my panties and skillfully rip one side and then the other, leaving them in tatters before he lifts me and tosses me down on the mattress.

Often there’s a playful, teasing quality to our intimacy. That’s nowhere to be found right now.

Luca drops his shorts and crawls over me with predatory speed. My legs are already wide open. I’m completely ready thanks to the brief, intense foreplay and still I stiffen with surprise at his first brutal thrust.

Within seconds I’m used to the invasion and wild for more. He takes me with savage force and I respond with equal intensity, locking my legs around his waist, raking my short nails on the skin of his back with the hope that I’m leaving a mark the way he’s left me with one.

Before Luca, all I knew was the tepid rise of orgasms by my own hand. Now I’ll never be satisfied with anything less than this consuming torrent of pleasure.

I’m losing myself as it builds. The bed creaks and the headboard thumps the wall. We’re so loud the neighbors can probably hear.

I don’t want this to end. I try to hold out for longer and can’t. With a rush of liquid heat, I fall to pieces, calling out his name as I shatter.

Luca’s pace only grows more punishing. Whatever rotten new memories he came home with, he’s trying to fuck them right out of his head. His mouth locks on mine and his tongue slides between my lips, giving me a taste of whiskey. I wouldn’t call it a kiss. It’s more like a command. The rough bristles of his early beard growth scrape my face. The sensation is new and erotic.

With a shudder and a deep groan, he reaches his peak. His hips give a final lurch as he empties into me. The spasms fade slowly and he buries his face in my neck. I wrap my arms around him.

After a long moment of sinking back to earth, Luca rises up on his elbows. From the way he stares at me, it’s clear he’s got something important to say.

I trace his jaw with my fingertips and wait, barely able to breathe.

Instead of speaking, he leans in and plants a quick kiss on my forehead before getting up, swiping his shorts from the floor and heading to the bathroom. Next, I hear water running and the sound of him brushing his teeth.

Neither my nightshirt nor my panties are salvageable. They get thrown into a small trashcan and I choose a long cotton tee to change into.

Within a minute, the door opens. Luca wipes a drop of toothpaste from his mouth and clears his throat.

“Bathroom’s all yours,” he says and climbs into bed.

I feel like there’s much more to talk about but the hour is very late. By the time I use the bathroom, brush my teeth and wash my face, the bedroom is dark and he’s facing the other way on his side of the bed. I can’t even tell if he’s asleep or not.

There’s no movement from him as I slip between the cool sheets.

“Luca?” I touch his bare shoulder. “Where have you been? What happened tonight?”

I’m breaking the conventional rules. My mother would never dare ask these things of my father.

And I’m sick of it, all of it. Why should Luca and I be required to follow their absurd Cosa Nostra codes?

I know he doesn’t love me. But I’d like him to know that he can trust me. I’d be crushed to see him transformed into yet another ruthless mafia overlord.

Luca is far from perfect. Then again, so am I.

But I think we’re both better than the rest of them.

Our personalities are polar opposites but we can be a team, figure this out together, if he’ll just meet me halfway.

Luca doesn’t turn around as his hand searches for mine. He gives my hand a quick squeeze and my heart lifts.

But then he says, “Go to sleep, Anni.”

He takes his hand away and burrows into his side of the bed.

It’s impossible to take this as anything other than a rejection.

And I know there’s a reason why this hurts so much, a reason why my eyes sting with angry tears as I turn away from him, bearing the cold certainty of unwanted truth.

I’m good enough for him to fuck.

He’ll tolerate sleeping beside me.

He’ll escort me places when he needs to and grudgingly refer to me as his wife.

But Luca doesn’t want more than that. He never did.

A lone tear escapes and trails down my cheek as the stark reality sinks in.

This is only the second time I’ve ever cried over a man. I wish it didn’t hurt far worse than some stupid college breakup.

And I only have my own imagination and my own foolishness to blame for the cruel rise of my hopes, for wanting something that was never offered and can never be.